Holland's jaw tightened. She picked at a loose, frayed thread on the hem of her pants. She didn't feel angry exactly, just profoundly exhausted. The cynicism she had developed over the last six months of her parents' screaming matches flared up. 'Let them talk,' she told herself. 'They're pathetic. This place is pathetic.'
But the thread snapped under her fingernails. Her chest felt tight. It was the sheer, suffocating arrogance of mediocrity that rubbed against her nerves like sandpaper. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the smell of her own skin, the faint scent of the vanilla soap she used blocking out the overwhelming chemical pine of the dojo.
"Hey, Sensei," Trent called out, his voice dripping with faux innocence. "We've got an odd number. Miller had to leave early. Need someone to hold pads for the warm-up."
Holland opened her eyes. The gangly guy—Miller, apparently—was walking off the mat, waving his phone. Trent was left standing alone, holding a pair of curved red focus mitts, looking directly at Holland.
Graham, distracted by a text message on his own phone, barely looked up. "Uh, just grab the new girl. Light drills, Trent. Don't break her."
Holland froze. The tight knot in her stomach twisted violently. She didn't want to engage. She didn't want to participate.
"Come on, killer," Trent said, walking toward her. He tossed one of the red focus mitts at her. It hit her in the chest and dropped into her lap. It was damp with someone else's sweat.
Holland stared at the mitt. She felt a profound, heavy resistance in her bones. She slowly stood up, picking up the pad. It felt foreign and cheap in her hands.
"Put them on," Trent commanded, sliding into a loose, arrogant stance, bouncing lightly on his toes. "I'll go ten percent. Just hold them up at face level. If you get scared, just close your eyes."
Holland slid her hands into the mitts. The Velcro scratched her wrists. She raised her hands, setting them at a standard, neutral height. She didn't say a word. She just looked past Trent's shoulder, fixing her gaze on a smudge on the mirror behind him.
Trent began to move. He was fast, Holland would give him that, but it was a chaotic, uncontrolled speed. He threw a quick jab-cross combination. Smack. Smack. The force reverberated through Holland's forearms, but she absorbed it effortlessly, shifting her weight half an inch to ground the kinetic energy through her heels into the mat.
Trent frowned slightly. Most beginners got knocked off balance by his punches. Even when he pulled them, he assumed he just hadn't hit hard enough.
"A little higher, kid," he barked, tapping his own chin. "I'm not aiming for your chest."
Holland raised the pads an inch. She was actively trying to look incompetent. She let her shoulders slump, her stance narrow and wobbly. She wanted this over with. She wanted to go back to her empty apartment and sleep.
Trent threw another combination: a double jab, followed by a heavy right hook. Smack, smack, crack. He put real weight into the hook. It was a bully's punch designed to intimidate, to jar the pad holder's shoulders, and assert dominance. Holland felt the vibration shoot up to her collarbone. She let her left arm collapse slightly, acting as though the blow had overwhelmed her structure. She stumbled back half a step, biting the inside of her cheek.